


Miracle Aligner

by aamaaris



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Drug Addiction, Happy Ending, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, alex is addicted, eventually, just read it, miles is a drug dealer, miles is kinda his guardian angel, ok not literally his guardian angel but yeah, takes place in 60s-70s, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 12:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18343652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aamaaris/pseuds/aamaaris
Summary: If Alex were more abstemious in his emotions, perhaps the man wouldn’t find him so amusing. This seems to be a regular occurrence in his life; people either find him terribly insufferable, or they find him amusing; there’s no in between. For some odd reason, he’s relieved that the man's chosen the latter.





	Miracle Aligner

Fall, 1963

On the corner of Kings Hedges and Milton

Clouds- he thinks often of them; what it feels like to be one. Placid, maybe, being able to float just above the tumult; to be so weightless and free of restraint, free from inhibition. It’s a bit of an unoriginally thoughtless surmise, that. There's always more than meets the eye, and who is he to disregard the possible disadvantages that lie just beneath the serenity of a cloud? It could be terrifying. Are they certain of their stability? Are they constantly looking down, in fear that one day they may fall? Maybe they look upward, afraid of someday ascending. How far does up go? Is it as unknown to them as it is to him? It’s a comforting thought, to think that something as supernally complex as clouds could be as clueless as he is. His father has always said that his head was stuck in the clouds, that he was too caught up in what may be instead of what is.

To his father, a hardworking, practical man, that was a terrible thing, something deplorable of a young boy; but Alex would challenge the idea if he was so bold. If what is is shit, who could blame him for fantasizing about what could be? His father would soon find that the envelope of shame could be pushed much further passed that of being a daydreamer. The night sky, he observes, is free from clouds. It’s pitch black, devoid of anything- no stars- just black. Like a rip in time and space. A cool breeze rustles past him, nipping harshly at his bare arms. He stifles a shiver with a tense jaw and checks his ratty brown leather watch. Midnight.

“You Turner?”

A prepossessing voice cuts through his thoughts, and Alex’s eyes snap up from his wrist. The man standing before him looks like a shadow, a silhouette that’s jumped off the pavement, with dark hair and dark shapes cast over his eyes, dressed from head to toe in black. His brain runs through the possible identity of the man with the foreign face, but nothing comes to mind. If this bloke knows his name, he’s heard about it from someone, and he only knows one person from around here. He looks around, assuring that they’re the only ones on the street. Perhaps it’s an old friend, a mate from school who just so happens to be on the same strip at 12 in the morning. Unlikely, he thinks, ticking this possibility off his list. He shuffles from foot to foot, hesitant, but answers nonetheless.

“Yeah.”

The corners of the man's thin lips quirk upwards in a ghost of a smile, a smirk perhaps, but it’s gone faster than he can blink. “I’m ‘ere for Cook.” 

“What?” Alex asks.

“ _ Cook _ ,” The man reiterates, slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. “He couldn’t make it, so he sent me.”

“Fuck,” Alex swears as his hands begin to tremble, a neurotic tick he’s never managed to shake. He shoves them into his pockets. “I need t’see Cook.”

A bushy brow quirks upward in something like amusement. “What’s he got that I don’t?”

“ ’s not that.” Alex answers quickly before diverting his eyes, looking down at the man's worn shoes. He scuffs the toes of his own tattered boots against the pavement, a sweat beginning to form on his brow. It’s not that he’s afraid of the man and the possible threats he poses - no, it’s not that at all. The man was getting in the way of his usually smooth drug deal. Just the thought of going home empty handed makes a nauseous feeling begin to stir in his stomach.

“Then what is it?”

Embarrassed and a bit lost for words, Alex doesn’t respond. Just continues to stare down at the ground, tracing the cracks in the cement with his eyes. Suddenly, the man laughs, loud and brash. “I know about the  _ exchange of goods _ thing you’ve got going on with ‘im, obviously.”

He fishes through the pocket of his pants and pulls out what Alex had salivating for the whole time. Alex’s head snaps up and his eyes lock on the small sack of pure white powder. The man laughs before chucking it at his chest. He catches it and stuffs it into his back pocket, before  clearing his throat and swallowing his pride like a bitter pill, knowing very well what comes next. When he speaks, his voice sounds foreign. “D’you wanna go into the alley then?” The man gives him a strange look, and he flushes. “Or a bathroom?” He suggests. “I know a guy at the pub ‘round the corner. He won't mind.”

The other man finds clarity of the situation and purses his lips. Alex would think he’s concerned if he didn’t know better. “Shit, mate, really? You really do that?” He says in pure astonishment, and Alex shifts his weight again, looking anywhere but at the man’s face. “ ’s always Cook.” And it’s obvious he’s missed the point.

“Right,”  The man says, his tone still a bit off. He clears his throat. “You'll pay your guy, not me. 'm just doing ‘im a favor,”  The man takes a step forward out of his twilight, ridding himself of the gloomy, veil-like accessory. Alex suddenly feels skittish under the winsome man's gaze, so he averts his back to the ground.  

“And anyway,” The man continues, taking another step forward, further from the half-light and closer into Alex’s personal space. “I wouldn’t feel right, doing that with you.” Alex tries not to take offense, but ultimately fails. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He mutters sotto voce, and the man grins sardonically, large brown eyes glittering under the streetlights. He seems to be a sadistic lad, taking pleasure in Alex’s offense. If Alex were more abstemious in his emotions, perhaps the man wouldn’t find him so amusing. This seems to be a regular occurrence in his life; people either find him terribly insufferable, or they find him amusing; there’s no inbetween. For some odd reason, he’s relieved that the man chose the latter.

“Y’know, taking advantage of strung out, rent boys ain’t really my thing.” He says lightly, as if giving his opinion on a book, still sporting a callous smirk. Alex fumes, his pale face going red, and this only seems to give the man more satisfaction. “ ‘M not a fucking rent boy.” He snaps as harshly as his pusillanimous voice will let him. “Aren’t you though?” The man asks with a raised brow.

“N-not anymore,” Alex stutters in an attempt at redemption, and then shakes his head at himself. “It’s not like that. He’s just helping me out.” The man hums, crossing his arms as if in thought. “Right, helping you score for a blowie in return,” Alex is practically shaking in his boots by this point, blood boiling hot, and the man is not oblivious. “You’re far too pretty for this lifestyle, love. Little lad like you has no business being addicted to this shite.”

“ _ Fuck off, _ ” Alex spits venom, truly angry. “You’ve not even the slightest clue about me or my  _ fucking _ lifestyle.”

The man grins around a twinkling laugh, and his eyes are full of emotions Alex can’t pin. This time he doesn’t back down, stares defiantly back, glowers really. If he’s going to get his ass beat,he’s going to get his ass beat; he’s long past the point of caring about a beating. Being on the streets for so long will do that to you.

The man steps forward, and when he reaches a hand out, it’s not to strike him, though he flinches nonetheless. “Miles,” The man says, arm outstretched and grinning like they’re pals. “And you’re Alex, right?” Alex stares at the man’s hand in shock for some time, brows furrowed. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he’s itching to get home to shoot up. So he grasps the man’s hand in a tentative shake, eyeing him like an ambivalently. “Yeah.” The man smiles, but doesn’t let his hand go. Instead he pulls until the shorter lad is stumbling into his side. “Let me walk you home.”


End file.
